Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

Wilfrid turned to Crispin. “I will speak to you later,” he said in a husky whisper. “I must go to Vigils before I am missed.” He turned abruptly and scurried back down the cloister, casting a furtive glance back.

“Fitful things, aren’t they?” said Alyson, gesturing with her head toward the retreating monk.

“He is naturally nervous at these events. Are you ready to go?”

“Bless me. What a night it’s been.”

He escorted her back to the inn in silence.

Jack snored, sitting alone at a corner table lit by a gentle flicker from the smoky fire. Crispin bid his good nights to Alyson, walked over to the boy, and nudged him. “Where’s our room?”

Jack licked his lips and looked up sleepily until he recognized Crispin and became fully awake. “I’ll take you, Master. You must be weary to the bone.” Jack hurried up the stairs while Crispin trudged after him. They walked along the gallery and Jack directed him to a shadowed corner. He took a key from his pouch and unlocked the door. Jack then tried to hand the key to him but Crispin was uninterested in taking it. Instead, he drew off his hood and mantle and let them drop. Jack scooped them up before they hit the floor.

Tucker stirred the embers in the hearth. Since it was a small room, the evening fire had kept it warm, warmer than Crispin was used to.

Crispin sat heavily on the bed to take off his boots and Jack hurried to do it for him. He quickly surveyed the room over Jack’s ministrations. A cot sat in the far corner. Looks like Jack will have a bed at last . There was also a table, two chairs, and a coffer. Not unlike his lodgings back in London. Except for the wrapped sword propped in the corner.

Once his belt was off and his boots hit the floor, Crispin fell back on the bed. He closed his eyes and started to unbutton his cotehardie when Jack drew the blanket over him. He didn’t see any reason to divest himself further when he was warm and comfortable.

He dozed, drifting. He dreamed of bones forming into skeletal monks. They danced to the tune of a bagpipe played by the Miller. Chaucer was there, smiling and clapping to the bagpipe’s rhythm, but his hands were covered by what looked like leather pouches. Some of the other pilgrims lingered in the background, but he couldn’t seem to remember their names. The dream changed again, and one of the skeleton monks pointed a finger at him, and then it became only a boney hand floating in a dark space. He drew closer to it, but the ground became mushy like a bog, so thick that he had a hard time pulling each leg from the mire. Panic set in when he began to sink, but then a loud bang stopped the action and then the knock sounded on the door a second time and he realized he was awake.

He groaned and drew the pillow over his head. Jack whispered in the doorway, arguing with the caller. The whispering sounded too much like snakes hissing and Crispin couldn’t stand it anymore. “Who is it, for God sake?” he growled from under the pillow.

“Master, I hate to bother you. But it is Mistress Alyson. She said the nun has awakened at last and begs to speak with you.”

Alyson stood in the dark gallery, holding a candle. Her eyes glittered from the small flame, and his sleepiness fled. He followed her with Jack on his heels.

When they arrived at the nun’s room, Alyson knocked lightly on the door and entered without waiting for a reply.

Dame Marguerite sat propped up in the single bed she had shared with the Prioress. Her brown veil had been removed and her wet wimple hung by the fire, sending up a veil of steam. It had been splattered with blood, and Alyson had no doubt done her a kindness by washing all traces of the horror from it. The nun’s hair was shorn and stood out from her head in brown thatches. Her pale pink face looked like alabaster.

She barely acknowledged Crispin’s bow. Alyson scurried to the bed and leaned toward her. “You asked for Master Guest, my lamb. Here he is.”

“Please, madam,” said the nun in a small voice. “Please fetch Father Gelfridus.”

“Of course, lamb.” Alyson looked up with a solemn set to her mouth before scurrying out the door.

Dame Marguerite’s eyes roved around the dark room. Her lashes flickered, seemingly aware of him but not looking in his direction.

Crispin leaned over and whispered to Jack, who hurriedly left.

“Dame Marguerite,” Crispin said softly.

Her brown eyes lit on him. They were round and glossy and exuded a sadness he could almost feel. Her voice was small but remarkably steady. “Is it true that you make your trade in seeking out those who do evil? Are you very good at it?”

He kept eye contact though he wanted to look away from that raw expression. “Reasonably.”

Her small face with its incongruously short hair and large eyes conveyed a sense of vulnerability. Her lips were dry. “I shall try to answer your questions. If I am able.”

Crispin swallowed. Jack wasn’t the only one defenseless under the eyes of a beautiful face. He moved closer. He almost sat on the bed. Instead, he lowered to one knee beside it and leaned forward. “Tell me what you saw.”

Her brows crumpled, and she fumbled at her bedclothes. Crispin noticed she clutched at a rosary. Her fingers ticked over the beads.

He glanced at a jug sitting on the sill, hoping it contained wine in case she fainted.

“My Lady Prioress was praying and I was trying to follow the words,” she said in a breathy voice. “We were in such a holy place; I did not think it mattered if I could not keep up with her. I followed when I could, but mostly, I closed my eyes and made my own prayers.”

Crispin remembered hearing both of their voices together, but sometimes just the Prioress alone. The echoes often made it sound as if two were chanting. He remembered hearing as much … before he fell asleep.

He edged closer. “Did you see the assailant?”

She gazed past Crispin into the dim corner of the room. “I don’t know. There was a dark figure. A cassock-no, a cloak. Maybe both.”

“Did you see his face?”

“He did not turn to me. He … he just … just-” A fit of trembling overtook her and she hugged herself and dropped her head.

“Dame Marguerite. Can you be certain? Was it a cassock you saw?”

The door opened again, and they both turned. Jack stood in the doorway with an elongated bundle wrapped in linen. Crispin stood and joined him at the door. Jack handed the bundle over without looking at Crispin and moved to the head of the bed. The lad’s voice was gentle and his manner more refined than his usual. “Can I bring you water, Dame? Anything?”

She looked at the boy with little recognition. Crispin took Jack gently by the shoulders and pulled him out of the way. Then he clutched the bundle and knelt again. “Dame Marguerite. You are doing very well. If you can just tell me. What did he look like?”

She shook her head and pulled the covers up to her chin. “I don’t know.”

“Tell me the rest.”

“I do not remember much. It’s … all foggy in my mind. I know he killed her.”

“But you were standing right there. Did he try to … to…”

“That’s right,” she said, her voice sinking into the blankets. “He did turn to me. He … said something, but I do not know what it was.”

“Another language?”

“Yes. Yes. Latin, I think.”

“But you speak Latin-”

“Only enough to understand the Divine Office. Nothing more. Yes. It must have been Latin.”

“Do you know what it was?”

“No,” she said vaguely. “Perhaps-” She screwed her face and stared at her rosary. “ Fortis et Patientia ?”

Crispin stored this information for later and unwrapped only the pommel of the sword. He gingerly presented it to Dame Marguerite. “Do you recognize these arms?”